


Life vs. Death

by wrothmothking



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, F/M, Kidnapping, Temporary Character Death, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Joseph has gone too far this time, and the only one who can fix it is Faith.





	Life vs. Death

**Author's Note:**

> ngl this got weird man

"Hello, Rook," she chirps, and it is a balm on age-old anger to be greeted as such; not Hades, lord and slave to the Underworld whose name he shares.

"Faith."

Typically, she wears the one white dress. Today, it is a lacy pale winter blue that enfolds her, spreading down to her wrists and down to her ankles, a navy shawl laid over it. Echoes of the colors mingle with pale pink in the flower crown atop her head. It is odd to see her like this, dressed for the ball instead of the field, but she is no less beautiful for it.

There are no angels about. Together with her warm clothing, this can only mean one thing: he is expected.

"I didn't think you'd come willingly."

"Do you expect the worst from everyone, or just my family?"

"Resisting your own kidnapping-" he cuts himself off, suddenly wary for she is approaching. Their clearing isn't the worst place for battle, but violence is unlike her, at least the 'her' she tries so hard to be, for Joseph. Rage tends to muddy the mind.

She stops a mere foot away from him, takes his hands into hers. Even through his thick, padded gloves he can feel her warmth and he has the inane thought he will have to lend her a pair until he crafts her a set of her own.

"You have come to me for help. How could I turn you away?"

It's a ridiculous question, but Rook finds nothing but clueless honesty in her eyes. He huffs. "Quite easily, if you were that sort of person."

"You say that, but you don't feel it. You're still judging me by the tales those heathens used to spew, even though you're a god of the Father's pantheon now, too. I wonder what they would say if they knew," Faith lets go of his hands, reaches up to hold his face between her palms, "if they saw you at one of our temples during worship without this mask hiding your face. The fearless Rook, their once champion, shepherding the dead at the whims of their most hated foe."

He steps away from her. "I didn't choose this."

"No one chooses the Underworld."

The world opens up before them.

"Says the woman about to literally jump into hell."

"It's heaven, too, Rook," she says, and then she's gone.

Rook lingers. He listens to the birds sing, watches the fawn tripping through the grass after its mother, the both of them unwary of a being as unnatural as he, and feels the weight of the sun as it burns through his dark layers and scorches his skin. Leaving is always difficult, but today he takes comfort in the fact he's taking something from the aboveground down with him, something precious.

Faith smiles at him when he joins her, her heartbeat the only sound in the vacuum of the Underworld's eternal night. He wonders how sharply she registers his lack of one.

"It's so different from the last time I visited."

"The realm changes to reflect its keeper."

He feels anxious, trailing in her wake as she flutters from one place to the next, not knowing what piece of his soul she attributes to the ethereal light-from-nowhere that guides their steps, the snow crunching under their feet, the plants of many kinds and climates, all strangely healthy, or the blank, black sky above, absent of moon and stars. However, he must admit he finds her curiosity endearing as much as daunting.

She snorts at one of his favorites, a saguaro cactus, and he wants to be offended but he can't deny it looks a bit silly surrounded by a patch of sunflowers in the combined shade of trees pine and cherry blossom. Whatever comment she wants to make is lost when a silver-shining specter appears scrambling down the pine tree, face hidden by dark, long hair and a hoodie.

But Rook and Faith recognize her still.

"Tracey," Faith whispers.

The ghost wonders passed them, unhearing and unseeing.

"You haven't ferried her," Faith snarls, accusing.

Rook returns her glare, unafraid in his domain. (Of violence, at least.) "I can't. It's not her time."

"You have to. You can't just leave her to wander for-"

"Fifty-seven years, eleven months, a week, and five days. That is the time Joseph robbed from her, from all of them, when he smote that church."

"Joseph didn't do it. He wouldn't!"

"Perhaps not directly, but whoever did it was following his orders, and I dare you to suggest otherwise. You can feel his anger infecting their essence even now, if you concentrate."

Faith purses her lips.

"You're not really bothered, are you?" Rook asks, rocking back on his heels. "Had he asked you, instead of John or Jacob or whoever, you wouldn't have hesitated. Wouldn't have thought to question."

"It's called Faith."

Rook scoffs, but elects not to pursue the topic further. "I need you to take them back."

"I can't do that."

"You restored your brothers just fine when I killed them."

"John and Jacob hadn't been human for a long time. It's different."

"Try. _Please_."

Faith gentles. "I haven't fought you so far, Rook. There is little I wouldn't do to bring you--and them--comfort. Please believe that."

Chuckling, Rook shakes his head. "It's not about me."

"Isn't it?"

"This isn't me yanking at the chain, Faith. Twenty-two people were taken out early. Think about the actions, the people, that erased from the timeline. Do you think Fate's going to let that slide? Do you think she won't be able to trace it back to Joseph like I have? Your Father-"

" _Our_ Father!"

"Our Father, _yes, fine,_ our Father might be essentially all-powerful, but not even he can suffer Fate's wrath lightly. There will be consequences if we don't rectify his mistake. You can play clueless, Faith. I can take the blame."

"You don't have the power to bring people back from the dead."

"Not alone, I don't. But he doesn't need to know that, does he?"

She's swaying. He can feel it.

"These people may be heretics, but they still have value. They can still serve use. I will make it so, and then our Father will not be displeased."

To say Rook is pleased at the idea of his guests becoming enslaved by the bliss is a vast overstatement. It's better than dying, though, and only a few would complete the transformation into angels, the others weaned off and transferred once they had seen Joseph's truth. Perhaps he can trick himself into believing this had been Fate's plan all along; it may even be true.

He calls Tracey to them; it seems right that she be first. If Faith is disappointed he doesn't reveal them to her, she says nothing. Each of them places a palm on her shoulder, completing the circuit by linking their free hands. She's cold. He never gave her those gloves, too preoccupied observing her investigation of Hades and then fighting with her.

"What makes you so sure we can do this?"

"Because you know life, I know death; you know the mind, I know the heart. Because we have to. For them, for Joseph, and for us."

"You were afraid for him." She sounds smug. He supposes she deserves it.

Still. There are some things he is not ready to admit, even if they both know them already.

"His death would bring chaos. The world's not ready for it yet."

Because Faith knows kindness, and is a loving, nurturing goddess--if loyal to men capable of terrible ruthlessness--she does not ask Rook what a ready world would look like, or what he would do should he judge it to be so.

"Follow my lead," Faith says.

The moment Rook nods his assent, he feels it--feels her. Her power surges through him like a livewire. It's like orange tastes, like a bag of frozen peas against a black eye, like a lap full of mewling, newborn kittens, and like a crunched-up bouquet of flowers delivered from his crush's backpack. All rolled into one electric sensation, roving through his veins like a hound dog chasing after a rabbit.

The rabbit being Tracey.

Quickly, Rook grabs at the edges of the yawning cavern in his mind and pulls himself together. He focuses on Tracey, the torn fabric of her soul and the transparency of her not-flesh. Directing his energy through his palms, he augments her power and doubles over her work.

For an hour, they work, Rook taking point on the healing and Faith on the rebuilding. They sound the same in his head, but in practice they couldn't be more different for their complementary natures. Vertical versus horizontal. White versus black. Life versus death.

When Tracey is gone, transported to the surface by forces not even a god is privy to, Rook looks to Faith and thinks about how much he's going to miss her when she's gone.

But after that day, she never stays gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Credit: Loosely inspired by the Hades and Persephone myth.


End file.
